The Hunter and The Prey
by Sien13
Summary: ONE SHOT: Two unlikely friends thrown into an unlikely situation with only one question between them: what do you do when your best friend becomes your enemy?


The man leveled the bow, closed his left eye and sighted down the shaft with his right, aimed the tip of the arrow at something only he was capable of seeing off in the far distance, tucked off among the trees, and adjusted it up a bit more to perfect the trajectory. His fingers curled almost impatiently around the black string, resting just below the nock, tugging a bit to test the balance of the pressure across the grooves of his fingers and letting it snap back into place with a soft _whoosh. _He shifted his knee slightly where it was pressed into the dampened earth, moving just enough to give him better leverage; anything to make his task a little easier. Not that he thought any of this was especially difficult, he just wanted nothing shy of perfection, considering that this was the sole shot he was going to be given for this particular job. If he botched it, the masked, older man standing beside him would just pull the trigger to his mockingly-clean pistol, whose barrel had been snugly pressed to one of the archer's temples.

Now, he was certainly used to working under pressure but this wasn't exactly the kind of thing he'd planned for when he signed up for the Russian mafia. Well, rather he'd been more thrown into the fray by his previous boss, whom had told them all about his skills and training received in the special ops. So he could definitely understand their need to test his loyalties, though he didn't take well to threats of any sort. Had the man been a little closer to him, he may have seriously entertained the idea of spinning around and driving an arrow home right between his eyes, or maybe into his non-existent heart simply so that he could prove that there was nothing there anymore. But he'd no doubt been briefed on the abilities of the vigilante he was testing and had appropriately prepared. Even he wasn't as stupid as to defy a man with a gun to his head. So for this one mission, he was going to have to abide by the rules set up for him.

Even if those rules stated that he had to kill the one man he'd sworn to protect: Dean Winchester.

Granted, the mafia had no knowledge their relationship with one another, since they had been sure to keep everything on the down-low, but it was oddly ironic that he was tracking down Dean, of all people; ironic and rather cruel. He was the first person the archer could have ever considered a friend. Throughout his entire life, nobody had ever treated him like Dean did, like he was a person worth spending time with despite his oddities. Everybody else had either avoided the weird foreigner from the start or had ditched him once they realized he couldn't speak—something that wasn't necessarily true. He _could _speak, but only in Russian, his native language. He'd been born into a life of servitude, owing himself to the military for whatever purposes they saw fit as soon as he was of age, and nobody had bothered teaching him English so that they could use him as the perfect infiltrator if the mafia ever got out of hand. That, and he'd been told numerous times that he was just plain creepy.

As soon as he was of age, he'd been sent into training, which was where he had met Dean, who was to be his trainer until they deemed him ready to get to work. At first, the archer had stubbornly refused to do as he was told, but after a near death incident, he had wizened up and really honed in on his training, picking up specialties in blade mastery and long-ranged weaponry used for stealth, more specifically the bow. Archery was a very uncommon method used by people in their profession, but since it was something he was naturally talented in, the military decided to approve it and let him do as he pleased, so long as he produced good results. Under Dean's instruction, it hadn't take long for him to get the knack of things and jump up in rank, and then he'd been allowed out on some trial missions, earning himself the handle name of "Silent Hunter," a play off of the fact that he had a bow and was an assumed mute.

It was on one of those missions that his truth slipped out. He had been scoping out a heavily wooded area around a camp while Dean hacked into the mainframe, but because he was distracted that day due to a lack of sleep he failed to notice the armed individual lingering behind one of the trees. As soon as he had turned his back and presented the opportunity, the man had ducked out of cover and stabbed a blade into his back, just narrowly missing the fatal points around his spine. He had been trained to deal with pain so he could handle it, but it hurt like a bitch and he still cursed aloud before detaining the man, securely strapping him to a chair and knocking him unconscious before he even made an attempt to remove the offending blade. Dean insisted on helping him despite him brushing him off, and it was while he was stitching up the wound that he brought up the whole Russian profanity string that had happened before. He didn't seem so much bothered by the fact that he'd lied about being mute than he was curious about it, asking if he could say anything else.

It hadn't taken him long to learn that the archer knew nothing of the English language, and then it became his personal mission to teach him what the others had neglected to do. They kept that between themselves, too, since his superiors didn't want him to know the language. Within a few years, a few things had been accomplished. He had learned a good bit of English and could use it well enough to pass, Dean could speak Russian almost fluently, and the two had become extremely close, nearly inseparable. But in the end, that wasn't enough to keep them together. Since Dean could now speak Russian he was sent out to infiltrate the mafia, who had been making some shifty movements in recent times. The archer had begged to go as well, but he had been denied and assigned to another teacher. A few more years passed, and finally he was tested and deemed ready to go out on his own. He was assigned to the same mission Dean had been and was briefed on the specifics and how he should try to get in, and he wasted no time getting into it all.

He'd expected to find Dean there, of course, but he hadn't expected to find him pegged as a traitor. The mafia had discovered that he was a double agent and had been searching for ways to dispose of him, and what better way than to have the newest recruit kill him? It wasn't as if he'd be able to go to the military after that, since he would be listed as the murderer of one of their officers, so it was as good a plan as any to test his loyalty to their cause. That was how he found himself out there in the woods, heavily armed and aiming his bow at the distant form of Dean as he lurked around in the shadows, oblivious to the threat that was following him. The archer was hesitant to take the shot, doing anything he could to waste time, to delay it enough that maybe they would run out of time and would have to track him another day, but the mafia was not so patient for news of his demise. The man beside him pressed the barrel of his pistol harshly against his temple where it had been resting, sliding his finger a bit closer to the trigger and whispering threats to him.

How long had he been putting it off already? It'd been three days, if memory served him. He'd wasted three days when it should have only taken him a couple of hours to end it all. He couldn't come to terms with it, couldn't easily bring himself to do it. But the time for waiting was up, and it was either shoot now or be dead in a moment and leave Dean to fend for himself with those savages. At least he would be merciful. So he pulled back the string steadily, reaffirmed that his trajectory was going to allow him to hit dead on target, and released it with a barely audible snap. There was a pause when the world seemed to stand still, and then the figure in the distance dropped to his knees, clutching at the arrow that had been driven into the back of his knee. Instantly the Russian man was shouting at him, asking him why he had shot his leg instead of picking a more vital area, and he started explaining that Dean may have information that they could use, and that he'd prefer to have a chance to extract it before killing him entirely. That seemed to satisfy the man, who nodded stiffly and told him to go finish the job, that he would wait a little ways away and watch.

He nodded and pushed himself to his feet, holding the bow loosely by his side as he set off across the woods, moving with the quiet quickness that years of training had granted him. Again he couldn't help feeling that it was ironic, him taking down the one who had trained him so well. The closer he got, the easier he could see the clean shot into the back of his knee, and there was no doubt that he wouldn't be moving around with ease anytime soon. He'd be lucky if it hadn't been severed. The archer had tried to at least pick a place that could heal, but be couldn't help having dangerously good aim. It was ingrained into every fiber of his being. He carefully knelt down, back into the leaves now damp with more than just the morning dew, and was surprised when the man didn't lash out or retaliate. He wasn't the passive kind of guy. His breath caught in his throat, fingers trembling just slightly as he reached out with his free hand to check for a pulse.

Suddenly a strong hand curled around his wrist, holding so tightly that he was pretty sure he heard a bone snap, and he clenched his teeth to keep from making some pathetic sound while he met the glare of Dean Winchester. His features were contorted in pain, but those startlingly green eyes told him everything; he was beyond angry, furious even, and the sense of betrayal was so strong that the archer had to look elsewhere. This man was his friend, and he had tracked and shot him. It was no surprise if he thought he would kill him as well. He could feel the glare still piercing through him, and after a moment there was a strained voice hissing, "Why, Castiel?"

Hearing his name said with such hurt made the archer's chest constrict painfully, and he just shook his head as subtly as he could, as they were still being watched. "Trust me," he whispered, seeing his friend's expression soften slightly before he gave a tense nod, clearly uncomfortable but willing to trust him. It wasn't like he would be able to escape, anyway. Prying his hand free and grimacing at the aching pain when he moved it, Castiel jabbed his fingers into one of the pressure points in the neck, and Dean was out in a second, resting limply on the forest floor. He stood, brushed off his knees and cradled his wrist to his chest, calling over his companion with the excuse that he wouldn't be able to carry him now—which was actually true now, since Dean had broken something in self defense. The other man griped but came over, kneeling down to check Dean while Castiel stepped back a bit. It was now or never, and now was definitely preferred. Drawing his blade from his pocket, he silently flicked it open and promptly dug it into the man's back with as much force as he could manage, piercing the area where his spinal column was and effectively killing him almost instantly. He fell aside and the archer moved in, working to free the arrow from Dean's leg before pressing another point in his neck to awaken him. He had learned a lot from their training.

He gasped sharply and pushed himself up on his forearms, looking between the dead man and Castiel. "Cas, what...?" Dean slowly rolled over with a groan and sat up a bit, tentatively touching around his knee to gauge the pain. It was still bleeding; they'd have to bandage it soon to avoid infection. "Shit, this hurts. Shouldn't have taught you to shoot so damn well, but, um, thanks, I guess. The hell are you even doing here?"

"I was sent undercover too, and they wanted me to kill you, prove loyalty." Dean started to protest, but Castiel shushed him. "I know, should have, but I couldn't. You're only friend I have. Came to save you." Understanding seemed to settle in after a moment, and the other man nodded slowly.

"Okay, then let's get outta here. You gotta help me—shit, man, I broke your wrist. Sorry about that. I can get myself up, but I need your support." As he spoke, Dean started struggling to his feet, and Castiel awkwardly waited to see if he would need his help. By some miracle, they managed to stay up and were soon making their way through the woods back towards the camp so they could steal a car. They were in trouble already, so it wasn't like a little more would hurt. They would make it.

"Let's get out of here."


End file.
